


and in that moment (she was all mine)

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, F/F, First Meetings, Flirting, Manipulation, Past Magnus Bane/Camille Belcourt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Maia may be beautiful, astoundingly so, but in the grand scheme of things, unless something unexpected occurs, unless she ends up stuck in this damned city for more than a few days, she’ll be nothing more than a blip, a single sentence in the pages of Camille’s life, a passing fancy.But she does needsomethingto keep her occupied until Magnus comes in.She gives him five hours at the most.She can do alotwith five hours.





	and in that moment (she was all mine)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the following prompt, which was originally from Round 1, from the Shadowhunters Prompt Ficathon: _Camille/any lady: a passing fancy_.
> 
> Title adapted from [Make Me A Bird](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEhPOpBvb54) by Elektrik People.

Camille hasn’t seen Magnus in nearly two centuries, but she’s not surprised to see that some of his habits have remained the same.

The bar she finds herself strolling into on a blustery winter evening, courtesy of a tip heard from a connection of a connection, is almost painfully his kind of establishment. The lights are dim and soft, there’s an area at the back echoing with the heavy clank of billiard balls, and while the traditional high tables and stools are present, much of the seating is in the form of cushy leather armchairs gathered in clumps along the wall. There’s a jukebox near the door, playing a horrendously upbeat pop song from a few decades ago, and the left side of the room is taken up by a semi-circular bar, the surface polished to a gleam. 

There are two or three mundanes scattered around the room, the smell of their blood strong and sharp even above the combined scents of spilled alcohol, melting snow and sweat, but the rest of the clientele are exclusively Downworlder, a mixture of vampires and seelies, warlocks and fae. She gives them all a quick glance but, without exception, their faces are all foreign to her. 

But she doesn’t doubt that more than a few of them are familiar with her, which means that it’s probably only a matter of minutes before one of them goes to tell Magnus of her appearance.

She’s spent nearly the entirety of the last two years actively searching for him, criss-crossing the world on nothing more than rumors, checking out every spot they had frequented together all those years ago, only to be met with nothing time and time again. 

She’s willing to wait a few hours for him to come to _her._

Maybe, if the fates are feeling particularly kind, he’ll even bring the necklace back to her, the one that, truthfully, she’s been searching for more than him. 

But she suspects that he won’t give that up without a fight. 

She crosses to the bar and seats herself on an empty stool, in between a mundane and a seelie who only gives her a momentary glance before going back to conversing with the person on his other side. The mundane looks a little longer, long enough for it to be irritating, and Camille turns her head the slightest, until she can just see him from the corner of her eye. 

“If you want to leave with both of your eyes,” she says breezily, noticing the flecks of mud decorating his trousers, “I’d find something else to look at.” She twists her head a little further and flashes a grin that’s more fang than anything.

The mundane’s stool scrapes against the floor as he pushes away from the bar and stumbles off.

“That guy was giving me the creeps.” 

Camille turns her head back just as the bartender pushes a wineglass of what smells like jaguar blood towards her. It’s not the kind of thing she expects a bar in _Brooklyn_ of all places to have on tap so, curiosity intrigued, she actually glances up to comment upon it. 

The woman standing on the other side of the bar is possessed of the kind of beauty Camille hasn’t seen in years. Her t-shirt is sleeveless, blazoned with the image of what Camille assumes is a heavy metal band, and the collar is dotted with tiny rips. Voluminous black curls spiral away from her face in a cloud, and her skin is brown and smooth, aside from three horizontal scars slashing across her throat. 

A werewolf, then, and one whose turning doesn’t appear to have been particularly voluntary. 

“We just got that in today,” the woman continues with a wave at the glass, and it’s only then that Camille realizes she never responded to her first sentence. “Have you tried jaguar before?” 

Camille’s first instinct is to laugh; there isn’t much in this world that she _hasn’t_ tried. 

Instead, she keeps herself composed and settles her fingers around the stem of the wineglass. 

“Once or twice,” she answers, bringing the glass to her mouth and taking a small sip. The taste explodes in her mouth, thick and tropical and rich, and worth every penny that she’s sure it will cost her. Once she’s swallowed, she continues, “It’s spectacular. I’m surprised to find it here.” 

The woman shrugs as she reaches under the bar and starts pouring another drink, one of the alcoholic variety, based on the sharp smell. 

“We try to cater to everyone’s tastes.” For a few moments, Camille simply watches her work, sure hands adding in liquid from half a dozen different bottles. The end result is something neon blue in color with a mint leaf floating on top, and when the bartender pushes it towards the seelie, he hands her a ten dollar bill and tells her to keep the change. 

“Good service is hard to find,” Camille muses aloud, taking another sip of her drink, eyes following the money as it disappears into the pocket of the bartender’s jeans. 

“When people are drunk enough, they practically give away their money,” she retorts with a slight smirk. Grabbing another glass from under the bar, she says, “I’m Maia, by the way. I don’t recognize you.” 

“That’s not surprising,” Camille replies. She’s done her utmost best to stay away from New York the last few years; she has too many enemies lingering here still, and the Clave’s iron hold over it certainly doesn’t help matters. As soon as she finds Magnus (or, rather, when he finds her) and gets what she wants, she’s leaving town again. Perhaps back to India, or maybe Venice, spend some time in her long-neglected villa there before the city finishes sinking into the Adriatic. 

With her mind on that line of thought, she has an idea. 

Maia may be beautiful, astoundingly so, but in the grand scheme of things, unless something unexpected occurs, unless she ends up stuck in this damned city for more than a few days, she’ll be nothing more than a blip, a single sentence in the pages of Camille’s life, a passing fancy. 

But she does need _something_ to keep her occupied until Magnus comes to her.

She gives him five hours at the most. 

She can do a _lot_ with five hours.

“Sorry,” she says, putting on her best smile, the one that has brought many a mundane straight to their knees, had them worshiping her like a god. “I’m Camille. Would you mind pouring me a little more?” She holds the glass out towards Maia, who takes it and fills it below the counter. When she passes it back, Camille deliberately lingers with her fingers on top of Maia’s for a moment, long enough to sense the blood running through the tiny veins underneath her skin. 

Once she takes the glass back, she glances up just long enough to see what is undoubtedly a flush staining Maia’s cheeks. 

She buries her smirk into the rim of her wineglass and carefully considers her next move. 

At least waiting for Magnus isn’t going to be _boring._

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
